Five Bulls (Part I)
The man in the grey cloak walked with the air of someone who carried the world on his shoulders. He had traveled to the territory named “Silver Summit” in search of an answer, one that eluded him for the past two years. After months and months of wandering, his search, directed mostly by intuition, had finally led him here. He was a younger man (at least, for the amount of fighting he had seen), somewhere in his late twenties. At one time in his life, his allegiance belonged to one of the major Ko-Sai clans, but that was years ago. His hair was a sandy blonde, and he was built like he had spent most of his life moving boulders for a living. The clouds in the sky seemed to be moving as quickly as he was, as if the world itself was in a hurry. Sweat began to form on his brow a mile outside the territory, and now that he was here, it was dripping down his back. It was not because he was hot, no. He was excited and he was terrified. A farmer waved from off in the distance. He was shirtless, with a spade resting on his shoulder. The wanderer waved back. It is different here, he thought. The people were more casual, friendlier. The further he got from the larger cities, the less trivialities and politics seemed to be bothered with. Perhaps it was nicer in the independent territories. Perhaps freedom was the key to happiness. He had been dreaming strange visions for a long time: whispered words, the color silver, tears on a beautiful face. Every night, sleep was a battle, and he lost more ground each time. If he was ever going to be at peace again, he would have to find the answer. If only he knew the question. The territory itself was small, but centered around a large hill. There were farms scattered around the base, but most people built their homes on the hill itself. There’s something to be said about living on the high ground, and it looked like the people of Silver Summit knew it. Silver Summit was considered an independent territory because it was free from the control of the major clans that were currently warring throughout the continent. The people who lived there worked for themselves, governed themselves, and policed themselves. They paid no taxes, no tributes, and obeyed no laws that they believed unjust. The drawback to this freedom was that they had none of the protection that a major clan could provide, and it was always possible that one might try to move in and expand its territories. A town had sprung up halfway up the hill, its main street making a complete loop around. It was littered with homes and businesses in no particular order, as if people had pitched up their buildings wherever they could. One home stood at the summit of the hill, looking down upon all the rest. It was a large manor, surrounded by a brick wall, obviously home to someone well-to-do. This might be a free territory, the wanderer thought, but those with the most coin will always be higher up. “Welcome to Silver Summit, traveler!” yelled the farmer as the wanderer drew closer. “If you’re looking for good food, try some of my harvest! I’ll give you a good price!” The wanderer smiled and took a small detour over to the shouting man. “I suppose a sack of rice would do me well,” he said. The farmer laughed. “You lone wolf types never have much copper in your pockets, do you?” He walked inside and came out with a pair of small sacks. “The rice will be three copper. The vegetables are on the house.” He smiled. “Welcome to Silver Summit.” The wanderer gave the man his copper and took the sacks. “Thank you…” “Klyne,” the farmer said. “Taros,” said the wanderer. “Thank you again. Perhaps I’ll stop by on my way out of town, too.” “Well, there’s plenty more where that came from,” Klyne said. His eyes only darted once to the sword at Taros’ hip, noting it but not caring. He patted Taros on the shoulder. “Enjoy your stay!” As Taros began to ascend the hill, he realized it was probably closer to a small mountain. There was no discernable pattern to where houses were erected, aside from the loop of the main street. Since there was no government and apparently plenty of space to go around, Taros guessed that people just built their houses where they wanted and tended to as much land as they could handle. The roads were dirt and the rest of the ground was covered in grass and flowers. It was nicer than his hometown, where it seemed that the ground was mud more often than not. The homes, however, were lackluster. They were all amateurishly built, mostly small cabins made from very large logs. Taros imagined this entire hill was probably covered in trees before people settled it. There were plenty of people on the road, some carrying goods and supplies, others seemingly just out for a stroll. Taros reflexively brushed his hand along the hilt of the sword on his left hip. Crowds made him nervous, especially a crowd of strangers. “Hello, stranger!” A middle-aged man in a green tunic ambled toward him, arms outstretched and a grin full of teeth on his face. He was of large build, just like most men in the area who spent their days performing manual labor, and had brown hair speckled with grey. Taros guessed that he was in his late thirties. “Welcome to Silver Summit!” “Is everyone here so welcoming?” Taros asked. He did not like the look of the katana in the man’s belt. Rarely did people other than fighters carry one of the swords of the Ko-Sai. “Of course! Why wouldn’t they be?” he was still grinning. “This is an independent territory, is it not? How do you know I’m not a spy from one of the major clans, scoping you out for a future invasion?” The man furrowed his brow in faux concentration. “I suppose I can’t know that without asking, can I?” He mockingly held his chin in his hand. “So, are you a spy?” “No,” Taros said. He could not gleam anything about the stranger from the way he talked or held himself, but the sword suggested that he was more than he appeared. Of course, he could always have bought it or found it, Taros supposed, but his gut said otherwise. “Oh, well that settles that, I suppose,” the stranger said. He smiled again as he strode forward and clapped a hand on Taros’ back. “If you’re looking for a place to stay, I recommend The Pasture. It’s owned by a man named Orrinth. He’s a good guy, and doesn’t overcharge, despite being the only inn around here.” He continued walking past. “Thank you, I’ll—” Out of the corner of his eye, Taros saw the man’s right foot begin to pivot. Instinctively, Taros spun hard on his own right foot and drew his sword from his sheathe, the motion granting his strike extra speed. Steel struck steel as the two swordsmen’s katanas collided, and Taros’ ears rang from the impact. Both men followed through with their attack, ending up on opposite sides from where they began. Taros sheathed his blade. “What kind of Ko-Sai sheathes his sword immediately after being attacked?” the man asked, still smiling. He sheathed his own blade. Taros turned around and pulled his hood back, revealing his tangled sandy-blonde hair. “I’m a great many things, but a fool is not one of them. Nor am I a blind man.” He crossed his arms. “You hesitated in your strike, to make sure I intercepted it. You were toying with me.” “I think ‘testing’ would be a more appropriate word,” the stranger said. He scratched the back of his head and looked apologetic. “And I think it’s safe to say that there’s more to you than meets the eye.” He held out his hand. “My name is Venirus.” Taros hesitated only for the briefest second, then took his hand and shook it. “Taros. Why are you so certain now that I’m not here to cause trouble?” Venirus’ grin grew wider. “If you were, you would have kept attacking, wouldn’t you?” Taros kept his eyes locked on Venirus. “I suppose that’s true.” He allowed himself to relax, even if he didn’t completely trust this man. “You’re a competent swordsman. You’ve had training.” “Guilty. I learned from a man who used to be a member of the Crystal Water.” He brought his thumb and finger to his chin. “What about you? You remind me a bit of my teacher, come to think of it. You’re from a clan, aren’t you?” Taros sighed. “I was. Years ago.” “Didn’t mean to pry.” Venirus turned his back and started to walk away. “Thanks for not holding all this against me.” He waved a hand. “Enjoy your stay!” An exhausted Taros collapsed onto the stump of a cut tree. The sound of cattle roaming in a gated yard behind him had been audible since long before they came into view, but he had not been prepared for the sheer number of them. There must have been hundreds of bulls and cows, and just in this one ranch. He held his water skin upside down, grimacing as not even a drop trickled out. At least the breeze was refreshing. A voice sounded from behind him. “You look a bit thirsty there, stranger.” Taros fought the urge to grab his sword, instead picking himself up and turning to face the newcomer, though a bit groggily. “Yes,” he said, “and I could use a few directions right about now. I’m looking for The Pasture.” The man (or boy, rather) that stood before him stood more than a head shorter than himself. He looked strong, but his short stature obviously kept him from equaling the other men that Taros had seen in Silver Summit thus far. Like many of them, though, he also was not wearing a shirt, and had the muscle toning of someone who spent every day doing physical labor. He looked to be in his early teens. The boy dropped the large sack he was carrying over his shoulder and leaned against the thick wooden fence that kept the bulls from rushing out and trampling the area flat. He slung a water skin off of his back and tossed it to Taros. “We have a well on the other side of the pen,” the boy said. “It might do you some good to fill your own skin before moving along.” Taros took the skin and guzzled it greedily. “Thank you,” he said, a bit of water catching in his throat and sending him into a fit of wet coughs. “I needed that.” The boy caught his skin as Taros through it back to him. “Well, Mister, The Pasture is on the other side of the mountain and a little ways up. It’s off of the main street, so you should be able to find if you explore a little.” Taros nodded. “You seem to have quite a number of cattle here.” It was the only topic he could think of to strike conversation. The boy grinned at that. “Yeah, we do all right. For some reason, they breed better in Silver Summit, or so I’ve been told. Never actually left the region, myself.” “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many in one place.” The boy slapped a bull as it skirted by. “Yeah, and they’re hearty, too. A bull from the Summit will outlast one from elsewhere.” There was a loud hoot off in the distance, from what Taros judged was the other side of the pen. Sighing, the boy picked up his large sack and slung it back over his shoulder. “Sorry that I can’t be much more help, Mister, but my pa is calling me, and I’m all the help he has today.” He nodded his head in farewell and walked away, leaving Taros to himself. I think I could get used to this place, he thought. Maybe I’ll stay a while. *** Taros had dreamt many versions of the same dream over the past two years, and after a week of living in Silver Summit, they only intensified. They were always devoid of all color but grey, though it was too bright to be considered anything other than silver. He was walking, slowly, clumsily, down a deserted dirt path that vibrated as though an army was marching swiftly towards him. A voice whispered in his ears, and he could not understand, though whether it was because the voice was too quiet or spoke a language incomprehensible was uncertain. The voice did, however, shake Taros to his core, the power behind it unfathomable. The one thing he knew for certain was that it was calling him. His stumbling would lead him past an endless sea of faceless people on either side of the path, all injured or crying out for help, but in this dream he could not go to them, nor was he completely sure he wanted to. There was pain in these forms, a pain that left most of them doubled over in the grass, arms outstretched and pleading for a relief that Taros did not think he could give them. As he neared the end of the dirt path, the voice grew louder, but he remained unable to understand. A final figure lay on her hands and knees in the center of the path, a desperate bow to Taros, before slowly lifting her head. Her hair was a tangled mess of black, her skin a pale brown and her eyes two brilliant emeralds, though how could he tell in the colorless haze of the dream? Two silver trails ran down her cheeks from her eyes, and when he saw this Taros reached his hand out to brush them away. Before his hand could reach her, however, a silver cloud of fog exploded from behind her, enveloping her, and this was where he would wake up. He had gotten used to the dream over time and never feared it, but the exhaustion brought upon by restless nights had left Taros desperate to be rid of them. The only clue he had was the metaphysical pull he had felt during his journey, as though his body was being lightly tugged towards what he now knew was Silver Summit. When he reached for the front door handle to The Pasture and felt the cool metal beneath his hand, the mysterious feeling abruptly ceased. Taros’ head swam, and he swooned drunkenly, his grip on the handle the only thing keeping him from falling to the ground. Absently, he could here the rabble of the townspeople at their lunch hour inside. Gone. After two years, the pull was gone. What did that mean? He felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. That constant buzzing of instinct that kept him moving towards this place for so long did not tug anymore, and all at once Taros realized what a relief it was. He was here. He was finally where he needed to be, and for now, knowing the reason seemed unimportant. Taros pushed the door open and stepped into the tavern, where his senses were assaulted by the aroma of food, alcohol and body odor, and the cacophony of shouting, singing, and all-around tomfoolery that took place daily in the town’s only inn. The building was filled almost to capacity, and Taros was afraid he might not be able to get a room after all. Everywhere, men were drinking, eating, and arguing with one another in equal measure, but a quick look at their faces told him that it was all in good fun. To a man who had spent most of the past two years traveling on the road and living off trail rations, the food had an almost otherworldly appeal to it. Taros’ stomach growled. He managed to move his way through the crowd of people and grab the last seat at the bar, almost exactly in the center. He slumped onto the stool, his legs still weary from travel, and rested his arms and head on the countertop. “What can I get you?” asked a gravelly, almost angry voice. When Taros looked up, he assigned it to the bartender, an older man of about fifty with hair that had gone white and a thick mustache of the same color. An eye patch concealed his right eye, and Taros could see the bottom of a scar peeking out from beneath it. He was the only person in the bar who did not appear to be in a good mood. Taros tried to suppress a grimace. If he was going to pay for a room to sleep in, he would not be able to afford much. “What can five copper get me?” The bartender raised an eyebrow and a bit of his upper lip at that. “That’ll get you an ale,” he said. “But if that’s all you have to spend, you might consider sticking with water.” Taros sighed. “I think I’ll have just that. And something warm to eat, if you would.” The older man grunted, a sound a lot like pebbles rattling around an old bucket. “Got some stew left, if you don’t mind a little bit scraped off the bottom of the pan?” Taros did not. He sipped at the water he was given from a small cup, and ate the stew reverently when the bartender slid it in front of him. It had been many weeks since he had eaten a hot meal. He ate in silence, making sure to appreciate each bite of his stew, but he could not help but eavesdrop on the two men sitting to his left. The were both older gentleman, most likely in their late fifties, with balding heads and dirty clothes. At this point, Taros had ceased being surprised at the muscular physiques all of Silver Summit’s inhabitants seemed to have, even these elders. It was actually comforting, in a way: Taros seemed to fit in perfectly. “They ambushed Tack as he was coming back to town yesterday,” one of them said. “Took his pack, his bow, and all the silver he made selling his horses.” The other man took a swig from his mug and slammed it down. “Damn shame. Those bastards need to be put down like the dogs they are. We’ve been allowing those gods-damned bandits to roam free for far too long!” Out of the corner of his eye, Taros saw the barkeep shake his head at that. “And how would we go about doing that?” he asked the two men, his voice a sigh. “There be a hundred of them, armed to the teeth.” The man with the mug flashed him a fierce grin. “We’re not unarmed ourselves, Orrinth. We have bows and axes, and don’t think we don’t know about the sword you keep behind the bar.” The barkeep, Orrinth, leaned over the bar on both palms until his face was an inch from the other man’s. “That is for me and me alone, do ya hear, Vex? It is not something I like everyone to know.” His eyes darted quickly to and from Taros. “It is meant to protect me and my daughter; not for a crusade against the wicked.” Vex, to his credit, never flinched. Instead, he smiled. “Orrinth, my friend, that is precisely what all swords are meant for.” Orrinth rolled his eyes and went back to wiping cups. “Foolishness.” Taros had not spoken a word during the argument, but he kind of liked this man Vex. After all, if the people in an independent territory would not stand up for themselves, who would? But, he understood Orrinth’s point of view, too. The only way to deal with outlaws was spilling blood, and more likely than not both sides would pay the crimson price. Bandits were commonplace in the continent: men (and occasionally women) who decided that it was better to take from others than to work themselves. They were dealt with harshly when caught by the Ko-Sai of the major clans, but because the current state of warring, that was happening less and less. Not to mention, in an independent territory, there would be nobody obligated to stop them. Only the people who lived here could oppose the bandits, and the people here were not soldiers, despite their above-average physiques. Just as he was finishing his meal and fighting the urge to lick the plate clean, the front door slammed inward, and all talking ceased. It was eerie how quickly the bar went silent. A large man strode into the room, though not large for the same reason as most Taros had seen. He was well fed, surely, to have gained an extra pair of chins and a gut the size of an iron cooking pot. He had a full beard, black as a raven, and dressed like a highwayman. A katana hung from his belt, and an array of daggers was clearly visible, aligning the inside of his long black coat. Two others, thin as a stick by contrast, followed behind him, each with a long knife hanging from his belt. Vex cursed under his breath, and Orrinth simply narrowed his eyes at the new arrivals as he wiped the bar top with a rag. The heavy-set man looked around, smiling. “Don’t everyone get quiet on my account,” he said. His voice was low and sluggish. “Barkeep! A bottle of whiskey for me and my comrades!” Orrinth stared at the man through narrowed eyes. “Your men and ye are not welcome here, Castor. Leave.” Castor’s smile twitched at the sides. “Now that’s no way to talk to a man of import such as myself…Orrinth, was it?” His hand brushed the hilt of his katana eagerly, like a child stroking a favorite toy. “Especially when the man could have his friends burn this lousy establishment to the ground by day’s end.” Now that the three men were in the center of the room, a handful of people were slipping out the exit. Still, others stayed and watched the scene unfold with grim fascination. “More like dogs, if you ask me,” Vex said. “And standing before us is the biggest bitch of them all.” Orrinth reached out and put a hand on the old man’s shoulder, but it was shrugged off. “What did you just say to me?” Castor asked. His smile was gone, now. “You heard me,” Vex said, standing up. “You heard me well, unless you’re as deaf as an old fella like me looks.” Taros did not like the looks if this at all. It was not his fight, and it was all he could do not to reach for his own sword. Castor lurched forward and grabbed the old man by the shirt, pulling him forward. “Say one more word, and I’ll–” “You’ll what?” Vex asked. “You’ll work me over like ya did poor Tack the other day? Beat me senseless and take my silver? Pah!” He spat on the ground next to the bandit’s boot. “I’m too old to be puttin’ up with the likes of you, Castor!” Castor stared at him, uncomprehending. Then his face tightened, and he let the old man go, taking a step back. Before anyone could stop him, the bandit leader’s katana slid free of its sheathe and cut deep into Vex’s stomach, splashing both Taros and Orrinth with the old man’s blood. Vex screamed and toppled backward, slamming his head against the bar on the way to the ground. “That’s what happens,” Castor said, quietly. He turned around, looking at everyone still in the bar. “That is what happens!” Taros hopped off his stool and knelt next to Vex. A small trail of blood dribbled from his lips, but other than that he was completely still, and would never stir again. Taros said a short prayer for the man’s spirit, equal parts foolish and brave. The spirit of a hero. A woman’s scream caught his attention, and when he turned to see it, his heart skipped a beat. One of the thin men that came in with Castor held a young woman in light-purple robes by the wrist. “Maybe we’ll take this one with us, as an apology for your patron’s rudeness,” he said, his voice hissing. The man was a snake, true enough. The woman was trying to pull herself free, twisting her arm this way and that. She had pale brown skin and straight black hair that ran to the small of her back. When she looked in the direction of the bar, her eyes met Taros’ for a brief second. Her emerald eyes. From behind the bar, Orrinth shrieked. “Ceilia!” Taros heard him drop to the ground behind the bar and shuffle various items around. Before the one-eyed man could rise, though, Taros leapt forward, sword in hand. Was this what he was called here to do? Yes, he thought, or at least part of it. The snake-like man was beginning to turn his head in Taros’ direction when the hilt struck him in the left cheek, shattering his jaw and a few teeth, and sending him staggering back until he collapsed by the doorway. Celia, pulling against him, was sent staggering forward towards the bar, past Taros. Orrinth had hopped the bar, a katana in his hand, and caught her in his arms, holding her close and spinning her, which in turn placed himself between her and the bandits. Instinct kicked in, and Taros spun on his right foot, similar to his earlier spar with Venirus, and drew his sword. It crashed against Castor’s who, despite his chubby stature, had surprisingly good reflexes. “Bastard!” the bandit said. His strength was on par with Taros, perhaps even a little greater. He pushed him back with a shove and made a horizontal slash at his neck. Taros ducked and sprung forward like a tiger, his sword forward like a spear aimed at the bandit’s midsection. Castor sidestepped and swatted the blade aside, barely, and the moment that would have allowed him to counterattack was spent regaining his footing. Taros spun again, feeling the burn in his right ankle from the exertion it had been facing, and started to make a diagonal cut at his opponent, when he felt a sharp pain in his side. Castor’s second lackey had stabbed his dagger into Taros’ side, an inch above his hip. Taros did not scream, but the pain was written all over his face. He dropped to one knee, and Castor’s boot struck him in the chin, sending him sprawling onto his back. Taros tasted blood in his mouth as his vision went blurry, and he could feel kicks raining down on him from the two standing bandits. He tried to get up, but every time he would be forced back down by a boot heel. As soon as he felt as though he would pass out, the kicks mercifully stopped. Taros was able to open one eye, and with it he could see Orrinth standing over him, face grim and sword tip held to Castor’s throat. “Enough,” he said. “Take your men and go.” He tossed the skinny man a bottle of liquor, who barely caught it after a few near-drops. “You have the whiskey you wanted, now leave before this gets more out of hand.” Castor’s eyes were a fire beginning to burn itself out. He looked at the blade on his throat, then back to Orrinth. He smiled that infuriating smile of his. “Of course,” he said, bitterly. He sheathed his sword, slowly, and took a step back. Taros turned his head to the doorway, now open, and saw half a dozen men dressed like the bandits outside, some pulling their fallen companion out the door and into the sunlight. Castor and his knife-happy compatriot followed, and the last thing Taros saw before he fainted were the emerald eyes of the woman he saved as she bent over him. *** One man stood up from the benches just two seats down from Taros and Orrinth. “Silver Summit has twice as many able-bodied men as Castor does. Since when do you speak such cowardly words, Venirus?” Venirus smiled. “Oh, I’m all for taking the fight to those rogues. I just wanted you to know the situation we’ll be in if we do.” Orrinth spoke up next, without standing up. “It’s a valid point he makes, aye. You all saw what happened to Vex, what almost happened to me daughter.” “That’s right!” came a shout from the back. “If we move against Castor, our loved ones will be at risk!” There was another murmur, this one louder than the first. “Quiet, all of you,” said the man on the stage. “We can’t simply let this go, Carmine,” said a farmer in the third row to the man on the stage. “They’ve murdered our neighbors. First Vex, now this? Silver Summit is a free land, and if we want to keep it that way, we’ve got to protect it ourselves!” Carmine nodded, scratching his chin. “What do you think, Septis? You’ve got the most experience in these situations. If we were to take on Castor, we would need you to lead.” The swordsman in the brown tunic took slow, almost casual steps towards the stage. “You were a captain of the Crimson Spiders, were you not?” Carmine asked. “You have seen battle before?” Septis nodded, slowly. “Yes, I was and have. However, I think you know as well as I do that there is another here better suited for the job than I.” Taros felt Orrinth’s hand squeeze his shoulder, and once again felt déjà vu. To the left, Venirus smiled even wider and turned his head to him. Carmine and Septis found him, too. Suddenly, it seemed as though all of the eyes in the room were on Taros. It made him shiver. “We’ve all had the dreams,” Septis said. “Colorless dreams. Dreams that brought a great many of us to Silver Summit in the first place. Dreams of a warrior who would unite us all for a greater purpose.” “Not just one!” said the young boy next to Rhodes as he snapped to attention. His father looked at him, wide-eyed, but the boy did not back down. “Five warriors. Five men carrying swords. That’s what I see when I sleep, almost every night!” “Talarius, hush,” said the boy’s father, and the boy did. Young Rhodes, his face bloodied and beaten, stood up for the first time. “I’ve had the dreams, too.” The words came out in a slur. “Until today, I thought they were just that.” Awkwardly, he walked to the edge of the platform and hopped off. He walked down the aisle and turned to the row that Taros and Orrinth sat. Rhodes knelt down on both knees, head down and palms on the floor. “I don’t know who you are, sir, but my heart tells me that you’re the man that can avenge my family.” He looked up at Taros, eyes pleading and full of tears. “Please, help us. I’ll give you everything I own if you do.” People were whispering, now, and Taros’ head was swimming: he did not know that others had dreams as he did, that he might be involved in something much larger than he first realized. Five warriors. In his dream, there were four figures cloaked by the silver fog. If what Vex had said in his dream was true, Taros was to lead those four, who would in turn lead the rest of them. “Ye had better say something,” Orrinth said, quietly, from the corner of his mouth. “I think they’re waiting on you.” Taros cleared his throat and rose to his feet. He could feel the weight of the eyes on him. “My name is Taros, and I have also dreamt colorless dreams.” He knelt down, gently grabbed Rhodes by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet. “Until last week, I felt an…instinct, which led me here to Silver Summit. I take it I’m not the first.” Many of the men muttered in agreement, nodding their heads. Taros turned to Septis. “What makes you think I’m qualified to lead?” The former Ko-Sai crossed his arms. “The dreams told me. Did they not tell you, as well?” Taros nodded. “So they did.” He slid out of the row and past Rhodes, and walked up to the stage. He stepped up and faced the crowd, Carmine taking a few steps back to give him room. “I was told I was brought here to lead four others, like the boy says.” He gestured to Talarius, now standing next to his father. “And that, in turn, we would lead the rest of you. “I was never one to believe in superstitious ideas like ‘prophecy,’ at least not until I arrived here a week ago and met Orrinth and his daughter.” Carmine spoke from behind him. “Just who are you? Why were you chosen?” Taros sighed. “I have been a ronin for the past two years, but before that I owed allegiance to the Crystal Water as a regional commander. I have seen many battles, most of them with the odds stacked against me and my men.” “And who are the four others?” asked Talarius’ father. He squeezed the boy’s shoulders. “Who else do you need?” Taros frowned. “I will need every able-bodied man that I can. But, as to the other four we’ve been dreaming about, I have a pretty good idea who they are.” Off to the side of the room, Venirus’ smile grew wider.